His Own Family
by shadeshark
Summary: What do you do if you're a scientist obsessed with finding out precisely how one human got so good at thwarting you? You try to replicate your discovery. Four human clones are created, two raised by foster families. What happens when the experiment ends?
1. Chapter 1

_Resident Evil is the property of Capcom; all characters are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. Original characters in this work are. . . still not that original, so I don't own them either.  
_

* * *

_On a stained notebook: _

My name is Topher. I'll be nine in two days. I'm very tired of the labarotory assistants because they keep asking if I feel older. They did that last year, too. I never do. I always feel just the same.

Father said yesterday if I was good enough I could sleep over at his house. I like that. It's warmer and there's a little light in the hallway.

But I wasn't good enough.

I think I found what I did bad? How do you spell laborotory? I am very sad but he says I have a whole year and he's sure I'll be better next one.

_Typed into a laptop:_

My name is Chris. Father said I was good and responsable and he would let me have a laptop for my ninth birthday. He did early. It's my best present ever!! He says I'll never be a scientist, but I'm going to study hard and be one when I grow up and surprise him!!

Topher was bothering the lab assistants about spelling and Father had to say to leave them alone so they could work. He can be such a ninny haha ha.

_In a journal:_

Why do Mom and Dad keep BUYING me these things? They say language is devalopmently dev. Devalepmentaly? Uh. Look, I don't get them. It's always "now Chris, I got you a book, try not to leave this one outside?" Only reading is hard and I do enugh at school.

I'll write about my birthday later. Bye!!

_In a Word document on a PC:_

Birthday parties are the stupidest thing ever. There's ice cream in my hair and Nancy kissed me. They all said Now Chris, no hiding in the closet even though she kissed me!!!!

_Excerpt from an email to Claire Redfield: _

. . . the snake's been quiet. Looking back, it's been a good few years, Claire! Umbrella's gone, and I've been searching for months and never gotten a trace of a new project. I do think about what he's up to sometimes, but we broke the master plan. It's those little projects of his that keep me awake at night. What's he up to? But Rebecca says I'm being an idiot and not to think about it! She's got a point. How bad can it be?

Love, Chris.


	2. Chapter 2

May 1, 2007.

"We're not twins."

"Is that right?" Savanna Austin glanced at the child again. No signs of any powers she could see—the little brat had been tearing around the lab all morning without any unusual ability to catch himself. He'd nearly cannoned into her once. Why did Wesker let them loose? Was he dotty?

"Yeah. Only we had different mothers and weren't born at the same time. Topher's had black hair and mine had red. Father said not to worry about that, we were still twins. He was pretty mad we found out twins were born at the same time from the same mother. Tom told us. So he said we had the same DNA and not to ask more questions because he'd tell us when we were older."

"Is that right." God, her back hurt. She'd thought they were lab subjects when she'd first seen them: dressed just the same in white, only one was scabbed from falling against the wall and the other one's hair was standing in odd directions, sitting quietly and playing with books.

"Yeah." He watched her work for a minute, hushed and with his hands tucked under his knees. The little urchin must have watched his "father" work pretty often to adopt that obviously-good air. Christ, she hated kids. They even had their own room adjoining the labs, with doors into the back. At least they weren't allowed in the HAZMAT areas. She was going to spend more time there. "What happened to your mothers?"

"We don't have any. Sometimes there's a babysitter to watch out for us, but she doesn't stay very long."

"Chris?" called a voice. "Topher!"

The child got up and bolted for the door. Thank God. She hesitated, then sidled to the door herself.

Wesker stood in the hallway, a small puppy in his arms. Chris stood, hands clapped over his mouth to muffle a squeal—okay, the kid was well-trained, she had to admit it. The puppy nosed Wesker's chin until it was gently, but firmly, restrained. Its leash was looped around one hand, standing out against the inkiness of his clothes like a line of blood.

There was the sound of sneakers skidding to a halt and another subdued squeak.

"Come outside, children." His face was just as expressive as usual, eyes unreadable behind his glasses, but there was warmth in his voice. She hesitated, then decided that it may very well have been faked. The puppy went wild at the sight of the kids, but he flipped it over as soon as it started windmilling, still holding it carefully. They followed him to the elevator—"not yet, Topher, you can pet him when we're outside,"—and got in with him. She went to the window.

It was almost a cute scene, the little. . . not-twins running back and forth playing with the tiny, clumsy Doberman, and the man standing there watching them, his arms folded. They came back into the hallway, finally, the puppy trailing along on its leash. Wesker unclipped it when the elevator doors closed, telling them about housekeeping and how they were to quickly clean up puddles, places it wasn't allowed, and how training a dog was a big responsibility. They seemed to be paying as much attention to him as they could, glowing and happy.

"What's his name, Father?"

"I was going to let-"

"Look!" One child was giggling as he walked backwards down the hall. The puppy looked between the two, then went hopefully after him, since he was the only one who seemed to be playing. "He loves me already! He's following me around!"

"Its name is Steve," decided Wesker. She looked again. Why. . . he was smiling. Maybe he did have a soft side, after all? She retreated to her work before she accidentally tested that.

* * *

May 1, 2007.

He walked slowly home. He'd intercepted the note, so his parents wouldn't get a phone call, and he hadn't gotten punched in the face, so they wouldn't be able to tell he'd been fighting. Chantal wouldn't tell on him; she was a good little sister. He stopped on the porch, trying to decide if he wanted to go in or not.

"Gretchen, I don't care. We've got a family reunion to worry about next week, Chris' grades are going down and we're going to reward that, Chantal might be allergic—you saw her with that sheepdog last week--I don't like dogs and never have, and I'm going to have to take care of it while you're out of town."

"Dear, we're going to miss the deadline. You remember what happened when you missed the bicycle lessons."

"Take it back and try again in two weeks. We can board it at the vet's or something."

"Dear, that's expensive," his mother was saying when a tiny, furry nose bumped the screen door open. He gasped. The spaniel's head came up, it stared at him with huge hopeful eyes, and then it bustled out onto the porch towards him, the whole rear half of its body swinging back and forth with its tail.

"Where'd it go?" his father asked as he scooped the puppy up. Crud! He was going to go to the woods until school was out; that wouldn't work if they were looking for the puppy, and what if it ran away from him? Maybe-

"Sh!" his mother answered, appearing in the hallway. "Chris?"

"I came home early. I felt sick," he said, as the puppy emitted frantic little squeaks to apologize for not being able to lick his face faster. He laughed, turning his face aside and trying to hold it. "Can I lie down later?"

For a minute he didn't think she bought it, but she just looked relieved and told him not to leave the yard. Next time he wouldn't freeze when he had a chance to run away.

And. . . what deadline?

* * *

May 1, 2007.

"Chris!" He recognised that note in his mother's voice. Dire impatience. "Cher!"

"C'mon, Cher," he coaxed. "You're almost to the ladder. I'm holding it for you. Just stop looking down. Look at your hands. And don't step on the top step." A mosquito fastened onto his shoulder, but he didn't swat it, just stared at the rocks ahead.

"Chris, I'm scared." Cher was using her trying-to-be-brave voice. He promptly handled the combined emotions of annoyance and deep love as well as the average child. It wasn't his fault she'd decided to climb up like he always did! And if they had to come get her they'd never let him do it again.

"You climbed up there earlier, didn't you?" He was really trying not to show his impatience, be the big brother so she would get over being scared and get on the ladder. He had it! And girls were dumb. "I told you not to come after me!"

Cher held her breath and swung a foot onto the rung, grabbing the ladder, and quickly scrambled down. He let out a huge breath—if he'd had to get his dad out to get her they'd be grounded for a month. "You did it! C'mon!"

"How'd you know I was up there?" Cher yelled as he started to run. She sprinted after him.

"I heard you!" The rocky cliff wasn't far from home; he ran it every morning, but right now it felt like ages. Cher was lagging behind more than usual, too. "Anyway I knew you were doing something 'cause you weren't following me!"

"I do lots of things without you!" Cher yelled at his back as he swung open the door and raced in.

"We were going to go to the pound and pick out a puppy after dinner." His mother's lips were a thin line. "But we'll just have to wait until tomorrow."

Chris glared at Cher. It was all her fault! But a moment later she looked at him and mouthed "do not!"

Girls were dumb!

* * *

_Excerpt from an Email to Claire:_

. . . but on the bright side, remember last year when I asked 'how bad can it be' and you yelled at me? Well, nothing's happened, ha! Today I got a false alarm that damn near scared me out of my chair. I visited a website from Uraguay and saw an Umbrella logo and part of an ad of theirs. But it turned out to be a screenshot. Tomorrow I'm. . .


	3. Chapter 3

July 5, 2007

_This is abnormal. _

The building seemed normal, from the outside. The guards were a bit much, and the level of security between the first and second floors was terrifying.

This. . . Dr. Wesker had called her in for a job interview. She'd only minored in Ed Psych; she was an Anthropology major. Why did he want her for child care? Still. . . it was only a year.

She was ushered in past too much security. Creepy. Only a year. . . but the room she was shown to wait in turned out to be the children's room. The living arrangements were odd—the children were privately tutored. Their room had a side door onto a lab that partly conducted genetic therapy; wasn't Wesker afraid they'd damage the equipment?

Apparently not. There were two parts, a playroom and a bedroom. The place was clean, the beds well-made, the floor vacuumed—the vacuum was a small one kept in a nearby closet—and there was a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle sitting on the bookshelf.

The bookshelf took a closer look. It was full of titles ranging in age interest; there were mostly how-to books, but some storybooks, too. On the bottom shelf were a few hardbacked fairy tales. She pulled one out. It fell open to a story about two brothers. It was quite short, only a page and half. She glanced over it.

A brother was murdered, and the murder discovered only after a shepherd made a mouthpiece for his pipe? The murderous brothers were thrown into a river to drown and the skeleton dug up and buried? She flipped a few pages forward, and found herself reading a story in which the mother murdered her son, then framed her daughter by having the child accidentally knock the corpse's head off. She closed the book and put it back on the shelf, shuddering, and then pulled another book on the wall; a history of the Civil War, complete with photographs of the battlefield. After that, the drawings on the walls bore more interest. There were some drawings, of varying technical skill, and a target hung on the wall by each bed. There were bullet holes in both.

"Miss Ericsdotte." She turned. She was a bit surprised by the man; most scientists here were on the plump and balding side. She put him at. . . hm. Late thirties? He wasn't dressed like a scientist, either; perhaps he was a bodyguard? "Dr. Wesker?"

"Yes. Come with me." He turned, starting away. She moved quickly to keep pace with him. "You'll be working for a year here. You'll be bound to confidentiality during and after your employment; I'll be glad to write a letter of testimony once your time here is up." He opened a door and stepped in, turning to hold it for her.

"And might I say I'm-"

He broke in sharply. "I'd like to be sure you understand my privacy is to be respected. I'm going to hold you to that as I give you the background story. Then you can tell me if you're still interested in the position."

"Yes?" A nasty divorce he didn't want mentioned?

"Sit," he invited, tone on the edge of a command. She sat. He did, as well, looking remote and lost in thought for a moment. Then he leaned forward slightly. "This is a research laboratory studying gene therapy. Part of the time, you'll have access to the labs; misusing that will result in termination and legal prosecution; we don't appreciate industrial espionage."

"Why will I-" she was working with the two children, right?

"Hear me out." He held up a hand, waiting for her to pause. She nodded. "Some time ago, I was called in to advise on a case in a fertility treatment center. The parents both were at risk of different genetic illnesses; we had to find the cells not at risk—sperm and ovum—and unite them, then plant a healthy cell into the woman. Out of five fertilized cells, two were viable. We implanted one. The other, on request of the parents, was to be frozen indefinitely; they were no longer interested now that they had their child, and wouldn't be able to afford another implantation procedure.

"After fertilization, the cell continues to divide. Our other healthy cell was still developing, and my fellow researcher split it into two, to see if they would still live. Both survived; they were, however, two potential humans he was playing with. I found myself mistrustful of his ethics. So I bought them from him, hired a pair of surrogate mothers, and kept the children."

"In a lab?" She hesitated, then pressed on. "Isn't that. . . you bought them?"

"As much as any father owns his children." He waved a hand dismissively.

Encouraged, she decided to go for her next concern. "They have targets hanging on their _walls_. Aren't they a little young for that?"

"Not at all. When they started, I held their shoulders to keep the recoil from knocking them down. They're very proud of their improvement. They don't shoot in the room, if that's what you're wondering."

He was making fun of her; she'd seen the wall behind the targets, anyway. ". . . they're exposed to such violent material. The stories. . ."

One eyebrow lifted fractionally. "The original fairy tales? Yes, those are the same versions that were told centuries ago."

"And historical carnage?"

"It is, unfortunately, part of the real world. I don't believe I'll be doing them favors by coddling them. Do you always intend to question my parenting?"

"They're children," she said, shaking off the feeling that she was Maria Von Trapp. "Where were they born, outside, or here? Who's been teaching them, if they're home-schooled? I didn't see backpacks."

"Miss Endicott." He pulled something from his pocket. She almost tensed, that unnerved by the strangeness, but it was only something small like a stopwatch. He pushed a button on it and stood. "It's apparent that you're both intelligent and curious." He started for the door as it opened. "Unfortunately, I'm looking for neither of those traits." A pair of security guards waited respectfully for him to go by, then entered. He waited in the hall until the trio was on the way down the secure elevator to the containment area, then buzzed the receptionist and went to the security control room.

"Father?" Chris waved a mechanical pencil first to see if he had permission to speak. "I'm not able to get by this, and Topher can't really explain it to me."

Wesker glanced at their workbooks. "That's because you're both wrong." He turned a little to let his peripheral vision catch the monitors, then crouched down and explained the problems again.

"When do we get to take apart the camera?" Topher's attention was, of course, on all the monitors; the child had a keener interest in electronics than his brother.

"Hopefully, after the next one." Wesker watched her appear on the monitor. She stared out the window at the ducks in the pond. He glanced at the timer: it was down thirty seconds. Fifty found her still watching. She wandered over, sat down on the edge of one bed, and stared at her shoes.

"Perhaps too apathetic—I don't want her staring at the ceiling while someone falls down the stairs," Wesker murmured.

"Father? Can we watch the news with you tonight?"

"Not this evening. I'll consider it tomorrow." Wesker nodded to himself. "She's noticed the walls. Let's see what questions she decides to ask."

* * *

July 5, 2007

"What kind of name is 'Roswell,' anyway?" The puppy thumped its tail, rolling its eyes at Chantal as she said its name.

"It's about a conspiracy." Chris looked at Chantal importantly over the top of his book. "You're too little to understand."

"When did you get into books, anyway?" She stuck her tongue out at him. "You're gonna be an egghead!"

"When I found out how much was in them." Books were nuisances when parents wanted you to read, but when you were reading on your own? Best things ever.

"All these books on survival." The cover got another look, and Chantal amended it. "Survivalism." She looked at Roswell again, but he was still snuggled in bed, looking exhausted, and their parents had said to leave the dog alone when it was resting. "Why did you get to name the puppy?"

"Because I'm doing the cleaning up after him," Chris said sensibly. "You can give him a middle name."

"Roswell Sparkle Redburn?"

"What kind of a name is 'Sparkle!'" Chris started, but realized in time that way lay disaster. "Look, he looks sad over it. His lips are turning down."

"He always looks like that." Chantal scoffed. "Gypsy?"

"No, that's a girl's name."

"Glee?"

"Roswell Glee Redburn." Chris figured that was the best it was going to get, and it almost sounded like a middle initial. "Okay."

Chantal re-focussed on the book she held. "Are you really going to survive in the woods for a week?"

"'f I want." He wasn't sure about that, so he went with a question. "When did Dad teach you how to ride a bike?"

"Hm. Uh. After I whined for a week."

"I. . ." he hesitated, "you know those tests I have to do every year?"

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you have to do those?"

"I don't know. They're like. . . Chris tests, or something. I always was happy I didn't have to do them. They looked hard." Chantal leafed through the book. "Eww! Are you gonna eat bugs?"

"I did last week for five bucks," Chris said, and then added when Chantal was still going "ew!" and throwing his socks at him, "I'm gonna stop taking them and see what happens."

"What do you mean?" She paused, still balling up a sock for maximum airspeed.

"I just want to see what Mom and Dad say if I say I'm not taking them anymore." Chris threw a sock back. "Cause I'm not. Nobody else has to. Why do I have to, anyway?"

* * *

July 5, 2007

It was definitely time to hide in the back porch.

The door squeaked open. Chris looked up to see Cher staring in, huge-eyed. She always got upset when there was fighting. He patted the swing beside him. She rushed into the screened-in back porch and scooted in beside him.

"I hate it when they fight." The house was full of stony silence. "What are they fighting about?"

"It's about the gun. Dad says he doesn't want it in the house anymore, Mom says he doesn't even know how to use it and she had to learn, and they had some sort of argument over who takes us shooting this weeked."

"Nobody, right? I mean, neither of them like it. Why did they even start in the first place?"

"I don't know. So Mom's cooking vegetarian tonight."

"No!" Chris immediately brought his hands up and shushed her, so she dropped her tone to a harsh whisper. "Screw gun control! Spinach and broccoli surprise should be illegal!"

"Cher!" She just stuck her tongue out at his surprise. "Look, I'm gonna go mountain biking, okay?"

"I'm supposed to go with you."

"Yeah, but you don't want to," Chris pointed out reasonably. Cher always tried to match him, but he was older and could go faster uphill when she had to walk. "I'll take my helmet. I'll be fine. Don't tell on me? They usually don't want to talk to us anyway when they're fighting."

"Okay. I'm gonna go play on the roof."

"Cher!"

"Handheld video game," she said innocently. "I'll sit right by my window. Fooled you!"

"Sisters." Chris shook his head, starting out the door. "Hopefully they'll get sorted out whatever they were upset about."

"Probably they will while we're at the game tomorrow. They never seem to talk while we're here."

* * *

July 4, 2007 

_Excerpt of an email from Chris to Claire:_

. . . Wesker was active in trying to obtain a bioweapon three years ago? And had the money! What?! Why didn't anyone tell me earlier? I'm very disappointed in you, Claire! You're my little sister, you're supposed to have my back! I. . .


	4. Chapter 4

November 2, 2009 

There were things the children knew, and things they did not know.

So Wesker read what they didn't know while he listened to them discussing what they did. They probably thought he was asleep; they were near the window to watch construction taking place on the building next door, while he was in the back of the room, leaning sideways with his work sheltered by his body. It was a negligible risk to appear in public; after all, he owned most of the island. The two needed time outside the labs. So he listened to them discuss the reality he'd shaped.

"What do you mean, 'not his kids?'" That was Topher. His tone was part scorn, part surprise.

"We don't look anything like him. Well, maybe the nose? But otherwise we don't. We had different mothers. It doesn't make sense we look like twins."

"He says we are. He has us call him 'Father.'"

"If we're adopted, why don't we have his last name? We don't have any last names. We don't have middle names, either." Chris sounded rather crushed about it, and Wesker marked that down for later consideration.

"But he takes care of us." Topher sounded down about it too. Hm. Could be quite the motivator, a name. "He gave us Steve and he spends time with us."

"Yeah. . . but. . . he's always disappointed in us. Today I was working on that maze puzzle and I got it done in forty seconds-"

"I never get it done by then." There wasn't much resentment there, but he heard a little. Topher hated being outdone.

"Yeah. And he looked at the time and said, 'you performed nearly as well as I expected.' I didn't want to say anything-"

"-thanks."

"But forty seconds!" Chris was clearly baffled as to how he could defeat that time. Admittedly, Wesker had expected forty-two.

"He let me help in the lab today. He wanted to do an autopsy on an ape." Wesker noted his matter-of-fact tone, and approved of it. The child had been too concerned about the deaths of furry creatures. Tonight's exercise should push them another notch towards the level of detachment they'd need one day, provided they turned out well enough to get there.

He let their conversation pass by while he compared the year's reports for the two placed clones. One was drifting towards outdoor sports—he rolled his eyes at Mrs. Redburn's paragraphs worth of concerns for his safety—and the other appeared to be. Hm. Doing nothing at all besides a great amount of reading, showing a tendency to furtive behavior, and expressing a strong interest in the outdoors. Socially, they were as devoted to their younger siblings as expected. Loyalty had a genetic component? How interesting.

He tuned in for another moment to see what Chris and Topher were discussing, but they had moved on to the construction project nearby. HUNK, sitting in his peripheral vision, moved suddenly. "Sir."

"Yes?" He shook away the lateness of the hour and sat up.

"They've called. They're on their way." HUNK was dressed as just the average traveller. His suit did nothing to make him look harmless.

He didn't see exactly when it began, but he knew they both did. There was no shout of warning; there wasn't time. He looked back at the construction site to see one of the groups of girders hanging from a crane above the site slip, in slow motion to him. He heard one of the boys start to scream and smash the side of a fist against the glass to try to warn the workers, heard the other start to run for the door. He watched the men scatter, watched one react too late.

They probably heard the man scream, but the crashing of metal was far louder. Wesker heard the fraction of second in which the scream cut off—instantly fatal. He restrained a nod.

He glanced over. That was Chris who had tried to run out to help, caught by HUNK on his way to the door, leaving Topher still staring out, fist against the thick security glass. Neither of them had been shocked into stillness while it was happening.

"Come on," he said, as the shouting outside picked up. "Topher. Come away."

"He died," Topher said, turning to him, huge-eyed. "Didn't he?"

"I think so." Hunk had released Chris and was escorting him over in the businesslike hustle of a stressed bodyguard. Chris was starting to cry. They both clung to him, small, scared human bodies. The scent was starting to get on his nerves; there was nothing like only a tiny amount of destruction to cause a Tyrant impatience. The car pulled up shortly afterwards, and he sent HUNK to the base with them. After all, he hardly needed a bodyguard. He leaned into the backseat. Topher was starting to get teary-eyed now, too. "I'll need to tell them what I saw. I'll be in soon." They'd be all right. And it was better he not be there for the initial storm of emotion.

He got in an hour and fifteen minutes later. Chris opened the door. Topher was in the back of the room, huddled in the blankets. Chris glanced back, then slid out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"Come on. We can talk in here." There was a side room with a couch and an afghan draped over it; he slept here when a project required his full time. Chris followed him in, smelling of misery. Wesker glanced down at him. He had a plan; it didn't involve causing either of them undue pain. He drew up a chair and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Are you all right?"

Chris made snuffling sounds for a moment, making a heroic effort not to cry. Wesker admitted to himself that was remotely touching, if irritating. "Son?"

He'd overestimated the amount of concern the moment needed, because that got a small clone of his worst enemy burrowing against his side. Shades of a sixteen-year-old Birkin who'd just discovered how deeply into the pit they'd fallen. As much as that touched the ghost of his paternal instinct, there was still the fact that he was a predator being approached by something hurt. He grabbed the afghan, wrapping it comfortingly around the child to insulate himself from the beating of its heart and the smell of its pain.

"It was an accident," he said, when he knew Chris wasn't going to start crying. "It broke his neck. He didn't have time to suffer."

"There wasn't time to do anything."

"You tried." Chris twisted up to try to see his face, alerted by his tone. Wesker looked back at him, not entirely approving. "I've only got two sons."

He burrowed back in again. Wesker considered, and decided twelve wasn't too young—Chris was merely soft. He probably should have done this a year ago. He gentled his criticism: or perhaps the child simply had a requirement for human contact he'd been keeping restrained, but had temporarily given into given his grief. "I wish I could have done something."

"Chris, nobody out there could. They moved to save themselves because if they'd tried to get close enough to pull him away, they would have been killed too. It was fortunate only one person died." The child made a small choked sound. "Yes. He didn't work for us. It was a sad accident, but it wasn't Umbrella's responsibility." A lie; he'd arranged the situation. But a necessary one.

"Who was he?"

"I don't know. Just a worker caught by surprise." There was no more snuffling, and he stroked the child's hair once, rewarding his stoicism. "It was a sad waste of life, but it was only one worker."

"But. . ."

"Hmm?"

"Did he have any family?"

"No." But it was irrelevant. "Chris, you shouldn't have tried to run out only for him. He knew there were problems. What if you'd been killed? I have you, and I have Topher. Do you think I'd want to lose you just for that?"

". . . oh."

Wesker let it rest there; Chris was determined, and he'd increase the value on the man's life, given further time to argue. But in this state, he wouldn't argue, and he'd remember it for later. He let the child think.

"Come on," he finally said. "You need sleep, and I need to talk to Topher. Was he asleep when you left?"

"I don't think so. He just isn't talking."

"All right. I'll see what I can do." It was going to be harder to make Topher see the relative value of life here. Still, he was confident in his ability.

* * *

Hey Journal! 

My name's Christopher Redburn. I'm twelve. I live in Tansville, Minnesota. And I think something weird's going on. Maybe some sort of secret government project?? Chantal isn't in on it. I can be sure of this. She says conspiracy theories are a waste of time and conspiracies are too hard to hide now anyway. She's just a kid. She'll figure it out someday!

Time to get this all written down so I can look at it.

Fact #1: I've been looking through family albums, and I don't look like anyone. Neither does Chantal even though Mom says she has her hair. They sort of do, but Chantal's is wavier like it wants to curl up and Mom's is straight.

Fact #2: My parents are sending off copies of my doctor's checkups. They've always asked for printouts when they visited the office. I didn't even catch it until Dad told me it was for insurance and Mom said the dentist's report was to a place to hold my records. Which I don't know what's going on, because I know they wouldn't hurt me, so what are they doing?!

Fact #3: They're supposed to be following some sort of schedule. I'm not sure why. Dad never played sports, but he took me to Little League until I told him I wanted to quit. And then there was the gun safety stuff. And the self-defense lessons. I stopped all of those. I want to be a fireman and firemen don't need to worry about guns. Oh—and the bike. Something happened when I didn't ride the bike? I think.

Fact #4: Where do they get all their money? Dad didn't work for a while and Mom didn't either but we didn't have to sell anything? Ronnie's parents had to sell their truck in a month after he lost his. My parents never talk about money, but it's weird we have so much. Grandma lives in an apartment and PawPaw and MawMaw rent their house.

It's all weird and I'm going to go back to the range and self-defense classes. I don't know what's going on. So it can't hurt to be ready. Be prepared like the books all say.

I'm hiding this journal and putting the one I got in first grade in my bedside table. My parents will never know the difference, I never wrote in that one.

* * *

JOURNAL ENTRY. THING. Stardate something huge. 

Hi journal! I'm Chris Reckart, signing in! And I have so much to write now that I'm finally writing in these stupid things.

Cher is always following me around! I can't stand it! I've started moving all my stuff from the secret clubhouse cave on the cliffs out to a shelter I made in the woods. Okay the first shelter since the last two fell down. But I think this one's going to stay. I can ride my bike all the way out to it and she can't keep up, so I think it will be safe for a few years. I wish she'd cut it out following me!! Doesn't she have something else to do? I mean, this part of New Mexico is dead boring, but I stay busy.

Okay besides the paper route. I am so embbarassed I missed that and she got it. I have to help with the recycling drive next week, too, and she gets out of it because she won't have time. Stupid recycling drive. Why are my parents so into environmentalism? I wanted to go on that fishing trip but dad says it's wasteful and fishing is boring anyway.

This morning Dad was looking at my archery targets. And then this afternoon Mom was talking about how well I do in karate. I think they think I need more to do, too.

But Mom and Dad have been fighting a lot this month. I don't think we have a whole lot of money now. I'm confused. Dad didn't lose his job or anything. Maybe he got demoted and they wouldn't tell us. I have to hide this someplace Cher won't find it now or she'll be scared. Cher if you read this we'll be fine and leave my stuff alone you brat!!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Resident Evil, Albert Wesker, HUNK, and Chris Redfield are property of Capcom; this is a fanfiction written without the knowledge and consent of Capcom, done entirely without profit.

Feedback is appreciated.

* * *

"Chris?" 

"Yeah?"

"That? That was really, really stupid."

"I didn't think it was going to hurt him!"

"You didn't think at all!" Chantal sniffled. "You're lucky you weren't arrested! You _punched_ him! What were you thinking, punching him? You said you were taking martial arts lessons to learn _discipline_, not to be a thug!"

"He was saying stuff! He's sixteen, you're twelve! It was wrong!"

Chantal seemed to be counting to ten. "Chris, you're a good big brother, but he fell off the dock and broke his arm. I mean, his parents could still haul you into court for assault. I know you have a temper--"

"I haven't had any problems with my temper for years."

"You're fourteen. I mean, judges don't look lightly on fourteen-year-olds for attacking people near dropoffs."

"Yeah. I—I know, Chantal. He was a lot bigger than me, so I thought-"

"That's another thing!" His previously docile sister suddenly swatted him with a sofa pillow. "What kind of idiot are you? He's huge!"

"So what! I'm not afraid of him."

"Okay, and as it turned out you were right—but not in any way that counted. Violence isn't the way to handle this, Chris. It isn't. You're lucky he fell on his arm instead of his head or something—there are rocks down there. He could've died!"

"Nobody dies from a fall that high."

"They do if they land _headfirst_ on _rocks_."

"Okay. Okay. I'll-"

"No more hitting people. At all. You're smarter than that, Chris." Chantal moved to sit on the porch swing. "This is the twenty-first century. No more fighting, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. Temper won, stupid won, and I punched the football guy and he broke his arm. I won't do it again."

"Nonviolence? Promise, Chris?" Chantal looked at him, all innocence and long blonde hair and huge blue eyes. She was his little sister. He had to make sure she was okay. And not getting his family sued would be a plus, too.

"Yeah."

* * *

How to sum up Chris Reckart's fourteenth year? 

"Chris, I love talking with you, but number one, I do not get your thing about meeting at camoflaged hideouts in the woods—I walked by this three times—and number two, when it comes to yesterday's greatest, you're cracked. Soundwave? No. Grimlock all the way. And the new series is going to make everyone forget the old ones. Pass the insect repellant."

* * *

The only one in the meeting room was HUNK, looking up from the tabletop with a total lack of surprise at seeing them. "You're to go up to his office." 

"But that-" Topher went silent, turning to Chris in confusion. In all their fourteen years of life, they'd never been allowed in his office. The sitting room outside, perhaps. The office? No.

"Access has been granted to your keycards." He spoke impatiently, although they knew it was simply that he was the only one in the meeting room and had to be waiting for someone.

"Is he going to be assigning us to training with the soldiers?" Topher hung back, somehow making the question seem a reasonable one. Chris supposed they couldn't be wasting the man's time more than others were. "I thought we were too young for that?"

"No." The flat refusal was inoffensive even when he continued, just stating a fact: "no, you're nowhere near the level I'd take."

Chris' pride twinged. "And you're going to be retired by the time we get there, right?"

He'd never seen the man's expression crack, but when he said that, he got a warm smile that rang out of tune with the rest of the man's purely professional bearing. For just a minute, instead of a killing machine, HUNK was a person. "I'm never leaving. I'm Death himself."

. . . a disturbing person. "C'mon." Topher sensibly came to the rescue. "We're going to be late."

Chris let himself be hauled away, looking back only when he was halfway down the hall. "Okay," he started, when Topher called the elevator and they piled in, "I knew he wasn't normal, but that was-"

"Sh!" Topher swiped his card through the elevator panel and pushed the button for the topmost floor. "We've gotta be ready."

They found Father standing by the window, looking out over the land around them. "Ah. Come in; sit down." He came and took the opposite seat at the table. "I'm sure you're curious about your antecedents. I'd like to know, first, what you've figured out independently."

"We're clones of each other?" Topher felt himself flush as Wesker's lips quirked. Okay, that was an easy one. "Artificial ones, I mean."

"We're experiments." Chris tried to cover for him. "That's why we have no last name."

"Almost, and how many times must I tell you? No." He paused. "In the time when I worked as a police officer, I had one man in particular who showed dynamic ability. He was a fighter pilot before he joined my team. He was point man; he was our marksman. He also was capable of surviving a scenario that wiped out two teams.

"I dismissed it as a freak combination of talent and opportunity. Then his sister showed the same disturbing physical ability, the same tendency to evade dangers that would have easily taken out the average human."

"We're clones of him."

Wesker smiled, reaching out, laying a hand over each of theirs. "Correct. He was injured in the field once, when I was Captain; it was simple enough to get a tissue sample while treating the injury."

"You didn't know what he was capable of then. You said you only noticed the strong genetic link later."

"Very true. I was analyzing his DNA for another purpose; I had a project at the time. It was later, when I was considering what to do next with my life, that I remembered the sample."

"His name's Christopher. So we're." Chris paused. "We're just hims?"

"Not at all. Both of you are individuals to me, and I chose to raise both of you myself. The first names were arbitrary; I chose his name because you descended directly from him. As for your lack of last names. . . well, I've always wanted to give my family name to my worthy children."

Topher glanced at Chris. A full name? Someday? "Is he still alive?"

They could both clearly read his disapproval as he drew back slightly, tense and irritated by whatever he was thinking. "Yes."

"You're not happy with that," Topher pushed his luck.

"Victory often requires sacrifice. We've made a few attempts on each other's lives; I had his life in my hands once, but I prioritized and he failed."

"Can I change my name?" Chris asked.

"Why?" Father seemed startled at the change in topic.

He kicked the table leg twice before he caught himself. "I don't want to be named after your enemy."

The older man gave him a rare smile. "Never be ashamed of your origins, Chris."

"Are there. . . others?"

The smile he gave them was small, like all of his were; neither of them had seen him smile at anyone else. It was warm. And it had a slight edge of warning, as they usually did. "I chose both of you. Two other clones survived; I handed them over to foster families."

"Who are they?"

"They don't matter to you, Topher."

Chris couldn't help it. "Are they like us?"

Father sighed. "I can see I started this conversation too young; I thought you'd be able to put this into proper perspective. Their only link to you is basic genetic material assembled in a laboratory. They're not important." He motioned towards the door, impatiently, in the curt dismissal he only used when most displeased. Chris immediately got up, unwilling to try him further. Topher followed more slowly. He looked back, once, but Father was turned away, looking out the window.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Resident Evil and Chris Redfield are property of Capcom, used without request or permission; this is written without profit to me.

(Also, note: This has been disjointed since I didn't want to cover every day in the life of, but it smooths out a bit after this.)

* * *

The airport was big, loud, and shiny. In an effort to keep its halls from being claustrophobic, or maybe to be sure agoraphobics were frightened off before boarding, hallways frequently ended in floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

"Chantal!"

With his plane delayed by three hours due to bad weather, Chris was wandering the halls looking for his little sister. She'd just gone to get a popsicle. . . "Chantal!" At least they'd rehearsed the airport run together on the flight. She had her boarding pass; she knew their departure gate.

He was still going to strangle her when he found her. What was she thinking? This place was huge. He started to turn what he thought was a corner, almost walked into a mirror image, started to swing away, and then looked back.

His reflection was, of course, looking back at him, but what had happened to his hair? And why was his reflection gaping? Chris experienced a nightmare lurch in the pit of his stomach before his reflection reached out and shoved him. He nearly punched back, remembering in time he'd sworn to nonviolence, but another man walked by him and continued down the hallway.

His reflection was a few centimeters taller, with hair that spiked out oddly in all directions, a black t-shirt, and a series of black bands climbing up one wrist. His expression was a flat, shocked stare, complete with a dropped jaw. Chris abruptly closed his mouth.

"Oh my god." His reflection pointed at him. "What the hell's going on here?"

"You. You look like-" Chris glanced at his reflection. Sensible haircut, nylon jacket against the rain, jeans. "I don't know! What is this?"

"I knew I was adopted!" The kid punched his hand. "I knew it! Who are you?"

"My name's Chris."

That provoked another confused pause. "No. My name's Chris."

"I'm looking for my little sister-"

"If you say Cher you're going to need Security here."

"No." His twin peered dubiously at his expression, then jerked his chin down in a sharp, familiar nod. Chris tried not to think of how weird it was to see someone doing something he'd only seen in the mirror, and went on. "She's named Chantal."

"Okay. We—" the other Chris looked around. "We need to get out of where anyone's watching us, and talk."

"What's your last name?"

"Reckart." He looked down a side hallway, skidded down it, and tried a door. Locked. "I think that's just a closet. Okay, come down here and talk." "Redburn."

"Oh, God. Uh. Older sisters? Brothers? Anyone else in your family?"

"Just me and her and Mom and Dad. Well, and the dog." It was easiest to talk when he wasn't looking at him. "Uh. You?"

"Same thing." The other dug around in his backpack. "Okay, I'm calling Mom and Dad, and they'd better have a good explanation."

"For what? I mean, this. We're. You're adopted? I didn't think I ever had a brother. Why would they give away my brother?"

The other him glared at his phone, then shook his head and snapped it shut. "Shit. No service. I always knew I was adopted! And there were those stupid tests, and-"

"Tests?"

"You had tests, didn't you. Once a year, and all about puzzles and how shapes would look like flipped over, and perspective things-"

"Yeah, and Mom would mail them off with my targets and-"

"They took you shooting when you were little. And my parents fought over it-"

"-they hated having a gun in the house-"

"-stopped for a while but they-"

"-yeah. Why did they ask you to start again? You did start again?"

"I don't know. I know they fought less, things were easier. Come to think of it, that was when I switched to archery. I didn't really think much about it." Chris shook off the distracting thought. "Come on! I still have to find my little sister."

"Let's go! Wait, what's she look like?" The punker of the two Chrises skidded to a halt.

"Short, blonde, purple jacket." Redburn started away. "So why are you here? I'm going south. I live in Minnesota."

"I'm from New Mexico." He bit back his next sentence. The strange kid, of course, noticed. "Tell me you're not going to visit your grandparents? I'm gonna freak if you are."

"No. I'm going to a sci-fi convention." Reckart's tone said not to even think about giving him trouble, but Redburn was already looking ahead anxiously, moving as quickly as the crowd would let him. "Where would your little sister go?"

"Uh, I'm gonna try the boarding area for our next flight. Maybe she went back-"

"Chris! I've been looking all over for-" she looked between them as they turned, "you. . ."

"Uh. Yeah. We'd better go talk about this." The search for a quiet spot was harder, encumbered by a staring Chantal and a lot of self-consciousness; they ended up crammed in a tiny booth in a shabby restaurant.

They started discussing it again, at first a confusion of voices and then something that sorted itself into a more organized story as the two went on. ". . . and we think it has something to do with. . ." Reckart finally trailed off. "Okay. We have no idea. But we have stuff in common. The tests. The one sister."

"So someone placed twins? But why would he care about your test ability? If I placed my kids I'd want. . . I don't know. Family stuff. The pictures when the fridge is cleared off and a Christmas photo."

"She's right." Her brother shrugged. "It's a weird thing to ask for a kid you let someone adopt."

Chantal broke in again. "I'm not a twin, right?"

"Uhh. No. Cher looks nothing like you. She's shorter, with a wierder nose and brown hair."

"Wierder? There's nothing weird about my nose!"

"Well, now that-"

"The thing that I'm wondering is why New Mexico and home," Redburn broke in with the speed of a kid who knew his little sister. "There's nothing at our hometown."

"Well, we're close to the water treatment thing for the valley," Chantal was duly distracted, "and the car plant. And the SolvTech building downtown, although that's really not anything important. It doesn't hire a lot of local people."

"Solv—wait. That's in Mom's address book. She, uh. She has me help her with--um. Stamping envelopes." Reckart stopped talking.

"So that's another thing in common. What about schools? Chris goes to a public school."

"Same. Nothing there, really. Um, no real sports."

"I'm on the swim team," Redburn listed, "I belong to a group that goes mountain biking, I used to skateboard, and I rock climb when Mom lets me go. No connection there."

"Uh." Chantal looked between them. "Okay. I'm calling Mom." Reckart nodded, pulling out his cell phone and turning it on again. Chris, left with nothing to do, watched the other Chris dial and thought about how weird it was to be watching yourself call yourself's family.

"Nobody's answering." Chantal hung up. "That's odd. I thought they were staying home until we called from our grandparent's."

"Can I see? Mine's still not getting any signal."

"Chantal? This is weird." He needed to talk to someone now, actually; he was getting very creeped out by finally seeing the way he frowned when things weren't going right.

"I know. It's. . . a little more than creepy, Chris. He's you." They both silently scrutinized Reckart for a moment. "Okay. He's you if you were geekier. Still, cree-"

"I don't believe it." Reckart snapped the phone shut and passed it back to Chantal. "Nothing. Answering machine just kicked in for the third time. Cher should be home by now." He paused. "Hang on. I'm gonna call my neighbor's house."

Chantal was silent until he was absorbed in talking to the person on the other end. "And more paranoid."

Reckart's fist slammed against the table, and for a moment the other Chris thought he'd have to defend his little sister. But Reckart was shouting: "what the fuck do you mean, 'your house is on fire!'"


End file.
